


Wait and Hope: Part 1

by woodworms_before_breakfast



Series: Wait and Hope [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Arthur, POV Merlin (Merlin), Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:35:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25959910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodworms_before_breakfast/pseuds/woodworms_before_breakfast
Summary: "All human wisdom is summed up in two words: wait and hope" - Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte CristoThe beginning, in which Merlin finds that he is not alone anymore
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Wait and Hope [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886035
Comments: 20
Kudos: 60





	1. Starfall

Quite frankly, Merlin was getting tired of birthdays. He’d stopped counting his actual birthdays centuries ago, instead spending one day a year commemorating the anniversary of Arthur’s death. It seemed fitting, an immortal measuring time not by his age, but by his purpose on the earth.

The day had become his new “birthday”, of sorts. And he was sick of it. Sick of playing the same melancholy pieces on the piano, sick of blowing out the sea of candles by the altar, sick of waiting alone. Always waiting, always alone.

He could stop. But some crazed notion had taken ahold of his desperate mind: _you can’t stop. If you stop, you might as well be spitting on his grave. You might as well forget him._

And so his 1500th “birthday” arrived. He dragged himself through the yearly routine: breakfast in the centre of the castle grounds, a ride on horseback through the woods, a concert by the cathedral entrance. The concert — at once the best and worst part of the day — was the only time he allowed himself to wear his clothes from Camelot, under the guise of his “medieval act.” It was the only time that he was able to freely channel his magic into something visible that wouldn’t throw him into a government laboratory. _Emrys and Pendragon: A Night of Magic and Music_. He should never have let them name his program; it sounded like an expensive, upper-class spectacle for men with monocles and women in corsets. But he had to release his magic somewhere, and he had to survive in this modern world where kindness was no longer a currency, so the concert seemed as good an opportunity as any to achieve both ends.

He’d tried different instruments in his quest for the perfect vessel. Clarinet, trombone, viola, even bassoon for a year. Outside of piano, he’d practised cello for the longest, drunk on the vibrant tenor of the lower strings. But after a particularly disastrous explosion during his passionate exploration of a Brahms sonata, one that the audience generously (or obliviously, more likely) attributed to the town’s overburdened electrical circuit, he had surrendered to the inevitable: the piano, with its eighty-eight keys, each striking a different chord of his magic, was the perfect vessel. Each key caressed the magic from his fingers, carrying it to the hammers inside the lid, forming each note into a round, shimmering orb as salty-sweet as his tears.

The audience loved it. _Here is a man who has had his heart broken_ , they said. How else could he play like this? And they stared, as they did now, enraptured by every brush of his fingers on ivory or ebony, leading their hearts up swelling hills and down sighing valleys. They stared as though they were trying to glean his secret, hoping to see some golden spark between his hands and the keys, something to explain the raw, ethereal _magic_ of his music.

They stared at his hands, and so they missed the golden helios in his eyes.

It was as he neared the last page of his last piece that the night went to hell. He struck the climactic chord that preceded the coda, and a searing pain struck his temple with nearly the same force and velocity. His hands were trembling in midair. The audience shifted subtly, wondering if this was another stroke of brilliance in the eccentric performance of Merlin Emrys.

A flash of white blinded him momentarily. He nearly collapsed as he stood from the bench, each motion infinitesimal yet agonising. A murmuring of disapproval broke out amongst the crowd of onlookers — he ignored them and kept his eyes fixed to the sky. Between the Gothic spires of the cathedral, there was a flock of bright specks, all soaring slowly yet surely in one direction. It wasn’t until after a few minutes of awed staring, adjusting his position to keep his eyes on the phenomenon, that Merlin squinted and discovered that the specks were flying in some sort of pattern: a long, majestic form, slender and gleaming, with a cross at the end-

Merlin inhaled sharply. He ran.

***

Excalibur. _Freya_. He arrived at the shore in time to see her emerging from the lake, dark and poignant and oh, so beautiful, one hand raised to point the sword at the sky. As he gaped, almost falling forward into the rippling bed of stones, the specks floated down from the sky and _into_ the sword. Excalibur flashed as the specks embedded their light into its surface. If a sword could smirk, this one was at the peak of its arrogance.

He tore his eyes away from the blade to Freya. The corner of her lips lifted slightly, and her cheeks were streaked with tears. Her chocolate-brown eyes were sweeter than he remembered.

“Hello, Merlin.”

He choked out a sob and shook his head to clear his vision. “Freya.” When he looked up, she had already glided closer, joy shining from every inch of her face. “Freya... I never thanked you after you helped me with... with Morgause and Cenred. And all the times after- I don’t think I’ve seen you since I returned Excalibur...”

She waited for him to finish, but he’d succumbed again to devastated gasps. “Merlin,” she said softly, laying her hand on his arm. She was so warm — a century and a half in the lake, and she was as warm as a summer breeze. She smelled of strawberries and wildflowers- “Look at me.”

“Freya...”

“Merlin, we don’t have much time-"

“That’s what you said last time and you didn’t even say goodbye,” he blurted out, noticing too late the accusatory tone in his words.

She waited again, smiling generously, as he hung his head. “It’s alright, Merlin. It seems the Fates are cruel, and we may never meet when there is not a crisis at hand. But for the moment, you _must_ listen.” He raised his eyes, blinking out salty drops, and she continued. “Kilgharrah, he- Merlin, he meant the best, but I’m afraid he did not tell you the whole truth.”

He snorted. “And should that come as a surprise?”

“In Arthur’s first lifetime,” Freya said, shouldering his bitter comment, “the Old Religion was not satisfied with what it saw. It sought not only the union of Albion — which was a dream that you, Merlin, ensured — but the full acceptance of magic in the world. The Queen’s repeal was not enough, for that was but a legal statement. Only you and Arthur can truly return magic into the hearts of men. When Arthur fell at Camlann, the Goddess decided that you both needed to prove yourself prepared for the sacred mission, and that was Her chance. Arthur _is_ the Once and Future King, but only if he passes the test.”

“The test?” Merlin felt a familiar stab of uneasiness bringing his magic to full alert, the same stab that used to appear whenever Arthur might be in danger. He swallowed, thinking of rocky beaches and hedge-built mazes and sleeping draughts masquerading as poison. “What sort of test?”

“The very one that you just passed.” She inclined her head, as though the very burden of selfless existence had woven itself into her hair. “Merlin, I’m sorry I cannot tell you more. I do not know much myself. All I can tell you is this — as you have suffered these 1500 years, so has your King.”

***

From the depths of the Lake, Arthur Pendragon screamed in grief.

The cliffs on either side bared their unforgiving teeth, black as the hungry jaws of death, while thunder laughed at the dying flicker below and rain mocked his sorrow. Other flames dimmed mere metres from his position, but he felt that they were galaxies away from his desperate inferno. No one but the earth and the sky was there to witness the whole splitting in half.

Pendragon red. Blood red. They were the same shade, he realised, as he stared at his wet cape and found that the colour had hardly shifted a shade. Had his father’s pennon always been this dark? Of course — the bastard knew. How invincible their armies would seem if the enemy could never tell when they bled. How cowardly, to hide behind an illusion of fabric while one was dying inside. How could he have ever looked upon this emblem and seen courage, worn the golden dragon of hypocrisy with pride? No- he berated himself. The emblem was not to blame; it represented Camelot, and Camelot could do no wrong in her King’s eyes. It was the coward who had worn the crown before him, worn it to yellow dust — that was his regret. Not Camelot. Never Camelot.

Nor the beautiful man gasping for breath in his arms. He brushed the wet raven hair behind those endearing ears, amassing everything in his willpower to _keep his eyes away_ from the bloody rip in Merlin’s tunic, because maybe if he didn’t look, it wasn’t really there-

“Arthur...”

The choked word snapped something in his chest, and his eyes could no longer hold back their waves of grief. He dropped his head down to look at his friend, his love, his soul, withering away even as adoration bloomed in those shining eyes.

Merlin lifted a pale, long-fingered hand to brush Arthur’s cheek. As he clamped his palm around Arthur’s neck and smiled weakly, there was a jarring jolt of _déjà vu_ , one that Arthur had been struck with hundreds of times ever since he met the warlock, as though something had hammered a dam in Arthur’s brain and memories had begun trickling out through the cracks, a warning of the catastrophic flood that was to come. (The first few months, he often studied Merlin and wondered, at times, why a servant looked more familiar to him than his own father.) In this moment, this moment that Arthur knew would haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, as Merlin manoeuvred his neck, preparing himself to profess his love or to say goodbye or to apologise — which was ridiculous, but the man had always been ridiculous — a vision suddenly flashed before Arthur’s eyes, him gazing up at a weeping Merlin as if their roles had been reversed. The image vanished before he could fully imprint it in his mind, but one thought lingered behind long enough for him to make note of it before it faded.

There was no time to lose. Merlin was gasping softly, his eyes twinkling gold as they fluttered shut despite his admirable efforts to keep them open. Arthur inhaled deeply and leaned closer to lay their foreheads together like the bricks of a forgotten castle.

“I love you.”

A frail sob. A shaky laugh. A tilt of the chin and a brush of lips.

Silence. Merlin’s forehead was cold.

There was not one living soul within a league to hear Arthur Pendragon scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have 100% hopped on the bandwagon of "Arthur returns and he and Merlin return magic to the world" fics! Hope this is as special as every one of those fics that I've read :)


	2. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hope to live, first."

Few things in the world are heavier than an empty heart. Close to none are more solid than a broken body.

Yet the road back to Camelot was an ethereal haze, fleeting and insignificant as a drop of dew rolling off a leaf. He blazed through the Druid camps that now dotted the forests outside of the lower town. As wide, golden eyes followed him, he heard pained whispers of “Emrys!” and “ _No_!”

He ignored them. This was not Emrys in his arms. This was Merlin.

As his horse galloped into the citadel, he braced himself for the faces he would have to bear: the desperate anger of a long-haired knight, the broken-hearted disappointment of an old man, the tear-streaked agony of a queen. The preparation proved necessary, for the cries and moans and furious unsheathing of swords were worse than he had ever imagined. He gritted his teeth and remained dry-eyed the entire time. _Do not shed a tear_ , he told himself. _Not until you’ve reached your chambers. You owe them- you owe_ him _at least that much_.

At last. He closed the door behind him and fell onto the floor beside his bed. Neatly folded by long, white fingers two days ago. He closed his eyes and waited for the tears to come.

***

“You mean to say,” Merlin said, staring at the water’s surface, “that he’s been living his life- _our_ lives, over and over again... for fifteen centuries?”

He lifted his gaze to ensure that Freya was nodding solemnly before dropping it back to the Lake.

“Freya,” he began slowly. “Why?”

She bit her lip. “As I said, Merlin, I do not know enough. The Goddess only allows me to understand what she wants me to. What I have shared with you is the extent of my knowledge. Arthur shall return within a month’s time, and he will believe only one lifetime has passed. You must wait for him here, Merlin. It is Her wish.”

A matter of hours ago, this news would have made Merlin collapse with joy. Instead, he pushed celebration for later as he filed through hundreds of questions to find the right one to ask. “And... when will you know more?”

“I cannot say,” she admitted. “I will return the moment I know more, but I suspect that will not happen until after Arthur’s return.”

“All right.” He sighed and sat down on the grass, pulling his knees into his chest. “I will wait here.”

The exhaustion of anticipation and dismay finally caught up to him, and he laid himself backwards. There was a splash, a sound full of regret and promise. He raised himself drearily onto his elbows and found that only the colours of the Lake remained to keep him company as he awaited his King.

***

Merlin’s funeral was unprecedented in size. Guinevere had declared that respect would be shown the great warlock by a candle placed in every window and a neckerchief around every neck for the following seven days. In the end, people refused to blow out the flames after a mere week or to remove the scraps of fabric that tied them to Emrys. And so the kingdom remained a sea of red during the day, an ocean of gold at night. His funeral pyre burned for an entire day. For weeks after, Druids and farmers and warriors traveled to Camelot to mourn in front of the silver sword that had been laid upon a stone block at the foot of the castle’s front steps. There were rumours that the Queen herself had forged the blade and engraved the two names on either side. _Emrys_ for those who idolised him. _Merlin_ for those who knew him.

The King had not shown his face ever since he returned from Camlann. Chatter dropped to whispers when servants passed by the wooden doors of his chambers, eyes squinting to catch any sign of life behind the cracks. Only Guinevere, who had been provided with her own chambers, had been allowed to enter, and then only to bring him trays heaped with food that she brought out hours later, untouched, and parchments covered with notes from council meetings that she had begun to attend in his stead.

The necessary laws were passed. The proper punishments were sentenced. Taxes were collected and reduced as the Queen saw fit, which left generous amounts of food on every table in the kingdom.

Camelot was flourishing under the rule of an invisible king.

A few weeks later, Gwaine was the first to set foot past the threshold of the King’s chambers. His anger had been quelled by time and mead, but being in the presence of someone he deemed a traitor was clearly still infuriating. When Arthur’s listless eyes brought themselves to his face, he grinned waspishly and shrugged. _Yes, I went against your order. What are you planning on doing about it, Princess?_

“What do you want, Gwaine?”

He heard a faint snarl. “ _Sir_ Gwaine, if you please, Your Majesty. You did knight me. Not that that means anything to you now — how many days have you gone without training?”

Arthur closed his eyes. “What’s the point?”

“Of what? Training? I’d say its purpose is to practise our swordsmanship, as it always has been.”

“Gwaine.” He heaved a deep sigh. “I... I don’t know what to do. I can’t... move without him. Damn it, Gwaine, I can’t _think_ without him.”

When he opened his eyes, Gwaine was staring at him, open-mouthed, his eyes shining with softer irritation and infant sparks of empathy. He permitted Gwaine a moment to shake himself out of his stupour. The knight traipsed over beside his king and crouched down. “You don’t have to, Princess. He’s with us, isn’t he?”

Arthur’s chuckle was ice-cold and mirthless. “But he isn’t, Gwaine. He sacrificed himself. He _abandoned_ m- us. How can I hope to continue my duties when the one I feel the most duty towards is...” He trailed off into a sob.

“Don’t worry about your duties for now,” Gwaine said, uncharacteristically sure of his words. “Hope to live, first. If you don’t know how to live for yourself, live for your people and hope that in time, you’ll learn. Otherwise... you may as well have died with him, eh?”

They stared at each other for a moment. Arthur narrowed his eyes, and he could see anxiety begin to crawl into Gwaine’s throat as his last, brutal comment hung in the air, but Arthur merely raised a brow and curled his lips into a half-smirk. The golden king clapped his knight on the shoulder and leaned his head back into the mattress.

“Gwaine, today must be the end of Albion, for you just said something rather wise.” He closed his eyes and listened to the breath of laughter, the thud of footsteps, the creak of wood. Eyes still shut, he braced himself to stand up and be King once more.

And then he was falling.

***

Merlin blinked.

A chalky flare streaked across his vision as the disturbance came into focus: the surface of the Lake was wrinkling like a lizard’s elbow. Evidence of twenty-eight days of waiting littered the grass beside him, so he slipped and stumbled slightly as he jumped to his feet. With a flash of gold, his scraggly, newborn beard vanished, returning his face to all of its former, angular glory. His mouth was parched, his nostrils flared, and his fists clenched by his waist.

He was the picture of impatient fury as he watched Avalon erupt.

***

There was darkness. It wasn’t the colour of shadows cast on stone walls, nor was it the obsidian of printed words on crackling, yellowed pages. It was duller than the glossy hue of brushed raven hair, yet it glimmered faintly, brighter than a black leather tunic. What was this shade? It was so very familiar, a sombre reminiscence that tugged at the back of his mind, aching for warmth and feeling and rejuvenation as he tumbled into numb, murky depths. Something was caressing his arms, his chest, his cheeks, something motherly yet dangerous. If this was a dream, it was not a very creative one. He was simply floating, paralysed in a gentle way that suggested he was not paralysed at all, merely relaxing of his own will, _his own will_.

 _You must rise now_.

He hummed a soft protest. _One more minute_.

 _It is time, Arthur_.

Time to grieve. He had only just closed his eyes. The kingdom can wait a moment longer. _I can’t let you go just yet_. But-

_Rise and shine, sire_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, the update schedule will probably be a bit erratic, so the next update might take a bit longer as I try to form a coherent plot in this mess of a head I've got here :)


	3. Stormcloud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All these years — he never would’ve thought for a single moment that he would not be able to return the golden smile of his King.

He’d imagined their reunion as so much more. A flurry of limbs and tears, perhaps, both paddling almost ridiculously in the Lake as they laughed and wept, clinging to each other while tendrils of relief and aggravation and sorrow wound up and down their spines. They would carry each other to shore, laughing and crying and stumbling over nothing. Night would fall, and they would remain near the water, still gripping each other’s shoulders as though they were the last two leaves on a dying tree. Words of pain and truth would be followed by vows of love and comfort; each of them would come to terms with what the other had suffered without him, and the knowledge would only demand that their arms grip more tightly and their tears fall more heavily. The inevitable, abrupt clout of fatigue would only catalyse their determination to merge their bodies into one, and they would secure their embrace once more and then drift into the same dream under the same stars for the first time in centuries.

That was how Merlin had told himself it would go. That was how he had pictured the moment he had been anticipating all these years, the reason he brushed each key of the piano and bowed each string of the cello and blew each note of the horn with such bittersweet tenderness, such agonising resignation.

All these years — he never would’ve thought for a single moment that he would not be able to return the golden smile of his King.

“Merlin!”

The lips that spoke parted with vigour, yet the word fell reluctantly, as though his name already deemed itself unworthy of occupying Arthur’s breath. _Mer_ lin. It had always sounded so sweet as it rolled off his tongue, thicker than honey and crisper than strawberries. Now, it smelt of burnt caramel. Merlin drew his lips back, baring a forced smile so as not to frighten the newly reborn King. The smile must not have reached his eyes, for Arthur wavered in his ecstasy, as though he had noticed that the sparkle in his own eyes could not be found in the warlock’s.

A beat passed before Merlin spoke. “Welcome back, sire.”

Ignoring the flash of hurt and confusion that streaked across Arthur’s azure eyes, Merlin pressed his lips in a tight line and gestured for the King to take his hand. He guided the man — still dressed, he noticed, in Pendragon red and battle silver — to shore, releasing his hand the minute they touched dry ground. The absence of the other palm in his hand felt so inconceivably wrong, Merlin almost opened his mouth, _I’m sorry, I’m glad you’re back_ ; but one glance at the stars, those _damn_ stars, and he began stalking into the forest. There was a quiet huff behind him, but he continued marching forward, only flicking his gaze back occasionally to ensure that the other was following.

***

Exasperation and fury raged thunderously in Arthur’s ears. They drowned out the music of the night-soaked forest, blurred the lustrous rays of the moon and the iridescent mist of the stars, numbed the tickling of the breeze on his cheeks. Even as the world unfolded with colour the likes of which he had never seen, his attention was focused solely on the angry mass of shadows leading the way before him and the unbelievable words echoing in his direction. _Centuries. Waiting. Alone_. The tension radiating off of those hunched shoulders was enough to dampen Arthur’s spirits and keep his mind off any other matter — including what on earth he was doing here, what _Merlin_ was doing here, how any of this had happened.

This blind curtain of puzzled irritation lasted only until they reached the road. Suddenly, the lights, the noise, _the metal monsters moving practically at the speed of light_ -

Arthur would have cracked his skull on the cement if Merlin had not caught him.

The rest of the way to Merlin’s flat was a flash of lights and screeching noise, the unsheathing of a long, long blade. Arthur knew from the taut muscles in Merlin’s jaw, the panic building in his ocean-blue eyes and the wrinkle etching itself between his dark brows, that all would be explained in full detail later. Knowing this, he allowed himself to concentrate only on refraining from collapsing in the middle of the greatest, loudest, brightest city he had ever seen. _London_ , he heard from Merlin’s lips.

He was rather proud of himself. He only fully fainted when they reached Merlin’s doorstep.

***

He woke up in a servant’s bed. At least, that was what he thought at first, thanks to the bed’s narrow girth and rock-hard mattress and meagre share of pillows. (His dream hadn’t been the dark void of eternal falling, though. Small blessings.) However, a quick glance around the chambers revealed that he was most definitely not in Camelot, and that his dream had not been a dream at all, and that that meant-

He stumbled out of bed in a fit of urgency, reached desperately for the door, and, when met with a familiar, aching vision, strolled forward with nonchalance in his eyes and relief in his heart.

“You’d think _cars_ would be the last of his worries,” Merlin was muttering as he poured tea into two mugs. “So alike... both loud and irritating, both massive brutes, both could _kill you_ if you don’t know how to-“

Arthur cleared his throat. There was a slight twitch to Merlin’s shoulders, one that he might not have noticed if he weren’t so used to having the man be upset with him. _But that had been centuries ago, hadn’t it?_ If what little Merlin had told him as they trekked back last night was true, they had been separated for centuries, not months. He’d almost stumbled to his knees at the revelation — would have, in fact, had Merlin not whirled around in time to grip him by the elbow, panic flashing across his face, and declared that this was _not_ the time to fall into a stupour over reality, he had to _listen_ , there was no time, duty to his people had to come first, and the words had resonated in Arthur’s chest as he remembered a similar speech in a cavern, a bowl of rat stew at his feet, his appetite gone along with his faith in his father, and all the while Arthur had gazed into those ocean eyes and found the same shining faith that had struck him so deeply so many times, and he had almost smiled.

“Are you going to gawk at me all day then?” It wasn’t so much the taunting words as the cross tone that shook Arthur awake. He frowned at Merlin and perched himself on a chair on the opposite side of the room to the glowering man.

He sipped his tea and waited for a full minute before the last drop of patience trickled out of him. “What on _earth_ is going on, Merlin? How are you _here_?”

Merlin’s lips had pressed together at the first question, but they fell apart slowly at the second, as though confusion had pried them open through his irritation. “Arthur,” he said quietly, “what do you remember?”

Arthur gaped at him for a moment before unleashing the full torrent of his anguish and self-hatred. _He stabbed you, Merlin_ , he was screaming. _You left me... in my arms... why didn’t you... Do you know how much I hated myself?_ Merlin listened with his eyes closed, looking for all the world as though he were dreaming, perhaps conversing with spirits from another realm. When the story was finished, he pressed two fingers to his brows and stood.

“That wasn’t real, Arthur.”

Ice. Ice, or something equally biting, crawled up Arthur’s back and froze every limb. A small portion of relief battled armies of bewilderment and shock and fear. He didn’t have time to decide which side had won out before Merlin continued.

“ _You_ died.” Another frosty blanket wrapped itself around Arthur. “You left _me_ , Arthur. And I thought... I thought you were sleeping in Avalon while I waited for you to return. It seems that you were passing your own test, living your life — _our_ lives — over and over again. Whatever you remember... unless it is exactly what happened in your true first life, it never happened at all.”

***

It didn’t take as long as Merlin had expected for his friend to recognise what had happened, to overcome the insurmountable grief of having lost everyone — everyone but Merlin — and finally, to begin pestering Merlin to teach him about the modern Albion. The King was a fast learner, but it may have had more to do with Merlin’s strict lessons and magical assistance than Arthur’s own learning aptitude. Nevertheless, the process of adaptation was a quick one. In fact, by the third week of Arthur’s return, he was all but a mediocre Londoner, save for the slight royal lilt to his voice and his preference for cloaks over coats or leather boots over trainers. Merlin had not relinquished his wall of polite aloofness, yet he couldn’t help but smile proudly whenever Arthur casually used some modern term (“Blimey, I’m bloody knackered, mate.” “Alright, that’s taking it a _tad_ too far.”) or begged Merlin once again to please buy him a mobile (“It’s too dangerous, the aura of ancient magic around you will mess with its signal.” “But how _else_ am I to play Tetris when you’re not around to lend me yours?”).

After Merlin explained to him how capitalism worked, how people had jobs, Arthur’s first question had been of Merlin’s career. The warlock had uncertainly shown the King his Steinway at the cathedral and, at Arthur’s insistence, played him some Debussy after enchanting the music to stray no further than the doors of the empty church. Those six minutes had been the closest Merlin had allowed himself to feel to Arthur since his return.

The King was no fool. He could tell that they no longer spoke to or behaved around each other with the obnoxious ease of a pair closer than brothers. The insulting banter was there, but less unrestrained. The physical contact was there, but less intimate. The blind mutual loyalty was there, but less blatant.

Merlin braced himself for Arthur’s explosion. When it finally sprung upon him, though, the impact was no less jarring. They had been spooning tomatoes and beans into their mouths, still dragging themselves into the morning air from the elusive realm of sleep. As it happened, Arthur was not as drowsy as he’d let on.

“Merlin,” he said, his fork clattering onto his plate. “Why are you being like this?”

Merlin took his time to swallow, preparing his defence. “Like what?”

“Why don’t you trust me anymore?”

That, he had not been expecting. Despite the invisible barriers he had built between them, ones he told himself were to protect both sides equally, he’d never imagined Arthur would think that _trust_ had been compromised. “Arthur, I still-“

“Then why won’t you let me in?” The words didn’t come out in Arthur’s lion’s roar to which Merlin had become so accustomed; instead, they were thrown at Merlin in a deadly hiss. “Why do you keep me at arm’s distance? Why do your _Arthur_ ’s sound more and more like _my lord_ ’s? Why... why don’t you smile with your eyes anymore?”

Merlin flinched at every question. The last one nearly drew tears forward. _Because I’m afraid of what I see_ , he wanted to answer. “Arthur,” he said, taking care to make the name an embrace and not a mere title, “I’ve been alive for fifteen centuries. But that doesn’t mean I _lived_ for fifteen centuries. All that time... do you know how it felt to be alone? To know that you once had everything that could ever mean anything to you in your grasp, and that you let it slip away? I wouldn’t be surprised if half of the oceans on Earth are made of my tears — most of which were shed for you. I lost everyone, but I could have lived with that, knowing it was only natural. But how could I live with the knowledge that for all the ‘greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth’ powers inside me, I couldn’t save the one person who mattered most?”

The King had listened, stunned, during Merlin’s heated monologue, but at the last words he seemed to shake himself to life. “So you keep me away because you’re afraid to lose me? Is that it? You think holding me far will give you the means to keep me close?”

“Because even after being punished for so long, even after _all this time_ , we _still_ have our destinies before us, Arthur! Didn’t you hear me when I told you what Freya and Kilgharrah said? Fifteen damn centuries, all a test! ‘Albion’s greatest need’ —we _still_ have a destiny to fulfill! Will I _never_ be free of-“ Merlin froze and groaned, rubbing his eyes with his palms. When he spoke again, the pain of having centuries of guilt, regret and torment be met with the threat of continued suffering seeped into each word. “Arthur, I- when I first saw a sign of your return, it was like I‘d seen the light at the end of the tunnel.” His voice trembled and sputtered to a stop. He took a shaky breath and continued. “I suppose I just didn’t realise it was a fire.”

Arthur had no words. Being the Once and Future King must have come with some blessings, though, for a deafening rumble at that moment spared him from answering. They shoved and wrestled each other as they raced to the window.

In the grey London sky, morning had begun to nudge the city awake, dreary with the exhaustion of yesterday but hopeful with the anticipation of tomorrow. All the lavish splendour of the eastern sun seemed to escape the awakening Londoners, the golden rays dulled by the prospect of another day of labour. Or perhaps by the urban fog. One could never tell.

What drew the focus of two pairs of blue eyes peering out of Merlin’s flat, however, was a flock of light auburn-feathered birds, casting a lorry-sized shadow upon the ground that the busybodies below miraculously ignored. The birds’ formation was rather odd, but Merlin couldn’t make it out until they were closer. At first, he took the long, thin shape for Excalibur once again, but a tentative squint discovered its true form.

“Is that a flower?” Arthur whispered.

“An anthurium,” Merlin replied, wondering how on Earth he’d known that without ever taking any botany courses.

The birds — collared doves, Merlin noted, again surprising himself with his inexplicable ornithological talents — slowed down as they neared the square of sky above Merlin’s window. The anthurium halted in midair, as though waiting patiently for its two-member audience to appreciate its singular beauty, before continuing steadily in the same direction.

Merlin and Arthur looked at each other.

“Grab your coat,” Merlin said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long update! I have this problem where I occasionally just,,, don't write good? Will try to be more periodical in the future :)


	4. Moonshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn’t noticed that the currents were shining with silver streaks — the way they had on the night of Arthur’s return.

Freya was waiting for them beside Avalon. She inclined her head wistfully as Merlin approached, ignoring the King.

“I’m sorry I gave you no warning,” she said thickly. “I’ve only just learned more of your destinies from the Goddess. She did not deem it necessary to relay any message before now.”

From the gradual softening of Arthur’s eyes, Merlin could tell it took a while for the King to recognise her as the Druid girl he had fatally wounded. At least he had the sense to restrain himself from reacting beyond a questioning glance in Merlin’s direction. One brief examination of Freya’s dry (albeit tattered) dress and her bare feet hovering over the Lake’s surface was enough to convince anyone not to interrogate her without the proper respect due to a divine being.

“It’s alright,” Merlin said. “Is that why you summoned us, then? To tell us of our fates?” His voice turned slightly bitter, and if the way that Arthur bowed his shoulders was any indication, he was also reminded of their earlier conversation.

“Yes, but that is not all.” Freya gestured to the water around her feet. Merlin let out a soft gasp.

He hadn’t noticed that the currents were shining with silver streaks, the way they had on the night of Arthur’s return. The blinding flash forced him to avert his eyes in an achingly familiar way, one that brought hope and anticipation to his heart. He recalled the surreal circumstances of that night and tilted his head back to peruse the sky. The doves were gathering by the treetops, circling slowly above the Lake as though searching for the perfect place to nest, except their eyes were on the Lake and not the branches of the trees. Below their floral formation, the water’s surface began to ripple.

Freya’s voice snatched him out of his musings. “I did not learn of this until moments ago, but do not be afraid — it is good news.” The Lake growled, and the ripple grew more violent. “The Goddess has decided to lighten the burdens placed upon you both by your sacred mission.” The doves perched themselves onto the topmost tree branches and watched as the Lake roared. “You and Arthur shall not be alone.”

Merlin swallowed. “Who…” The joy of not being alone anymore was overwhelming enough with Arthur back by his side, but the possibility of the _others_ returning, of seeing his friends and his-

“Yes, Merlin.” Freya gestured at the rumbling Lake. “All who had a part in your first destiny shall return. However, you will have to search for most of them across Albion, for only three are to rise from Avalon. Arthur was one of them. For now,” she said, waving her hand towards the doves, “it is time for Queen Guinevere rise again.”

Merlin heard a small, choked noise. He turned to see Arthur’s eyes wide, his lips trembling.

“But before she rises,” Freya continued, “the Goddess has granted me more knowledge which I am to share with you both. As I have told Merlin, and as he has no doubt recounted to Arthur, you have both been observed and judged for the past fifteen centuries. Merlin’s was a test of patience and careful judgment, whereas Arthur’s challenged his ability to accept change and hope for growth. For Arthur, the Goddess recreated your first life over and over until you lived it to her satisfaction. That is why you retained some vague memories in each life, to help you learn and to prepare you for your true mission.”

Arthur stumbled as he stepped forward, one hand raised in silent question. “But I only remember... I don’t remember any other lives?”

“Yes, your last life is the one you remember. It was satisfactory to the Goddess, as you showed great progress in pursuing the future you long to build. You may not realise it, Your Majesty, but you learned to hope. That was the ultimate lesson, the reason why you were not released from the illusion until after your conversation with Sir Gwaine. When you repealed the ban on magic, you learned to hope for a better life for your people. When you forgave Merlin for leaving you, you learned to hope for a better life for yourself.”

Though the mention of his name startled him, Merlin was busy reeling from the idea of experiencing this from Arthur’s perspective. He remembered _nothing_ _?_ None of the parts of their friendship unique to _his_ version of their lives? Dismay lodged in his throat like a bitter morsel of bone. How many of his memories were the same as Arthur’s?

“You’re saying,” Arthur asked, “that in my last life, I made all the right decisions?”

“Not all,” Freya admitted. “There are always things beyond our control, including parts of our nature that we cannot erase. But you showed enormous growth, especially in hoping for the best in people. In your first life, you showed admirable compassion to many, but not often enough trust to those who needed it most.”

“Morgana-“

“No, Morgana was not your wound to heal. Her fall to turpitude began long before yours, for at the time that you sowed the seeds to peace with the Old Religion, she had already been consumed by bitterness. She was no longer a friend of magic. Her hatred was never truly for you but for your crown. It laughed at her, reminding her that the one whom she had seen as a father would cast her aside without a thought. It was always too late for Morgana, and no one is to blame for that but Uther Pendragon.”

Merlin felt a stab of guilt at that last. _Uther Pendragon… and me_. Unable to control his confused, throbbing heart, he stammered out, “So he doesn’t- he doesn’t remember _anything_ from...?”

Sympathy softened Freya’s expression as her eyes searched his face. “Not yet. The Goddess, however, has given me the power to...” She stepped forward on the Lake, arm extended. “To restore them.”

“Ev- Every life?” Arthur’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Yes. Do not worry,” she added kindly, noticing the apprehension on Arthur’s face as he considered the strain of regaining fifteen centuries’ worth of memories, “you shall only feel as though you’ve woken from a dream.”

Merlin shivered, his fists clenching as Freya floated nearer. The doves above cooed impatiently, _get on with it_ , and he glared at them to be quiet. Sundown had just begun; the sky was a myriad of lilac and apricot with periwinkle clouds drifting lazily towards the horizon. The lingering tastes of forest and hope complemented each other in the air, warm and encouraging and homely. The world had been reduced to a single held breath as the Lady of the Lake drew closer and closer to the King.

Finally, she laid a hand upon Arthur’s forehead.He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together. Freya murmured an incantation as Merlin looked on, dumbstruck by the intimacy of such a life-shattering moment. The area around the three of them began to glow with a slight flame-coloured mist. When Arthur opened his eyes, they were speckled with gold. Merlin’s breath caught.

_A child born of magic._

Nothing had ever felt so right as this scene before him.

The world was silent for a moment.

Arthur swayed, his golden eyes blazing and staring at something concealed from Merlin and Freya, something in another time. While the firestorm raged in his eyes, the rest of his face morphed rapidly from anguish to fury to thousands of other emotions, a sight that would have been amusing if Merlin hadn’t known exactly what Arthur was absorbing — centuries of love, laughter and loss. The expressions became unbearable to watch, and Merlin dropped his gaze to his boots. They were wet and covered in grass and mud. He hadn’t seen them in such a state for so long.

“No need, sire,” Freya murmured, her voice strangely steely.

Merlin turned to his right. His heart stopped for a second when he found nothing there, but a tilt of his head downwards found Arthur on one knee, bowing his head reverently. Freya smiled minutely, both embarrassed and proud.

“On my honour, my lady,” Arthur began. His voice, clear and contrite, brought images of a wooded Druid encampment and a night-born spirit to Merlin’s mind. “If I had known of your curse… All my young and ignorant eyes saw was a threat to innocents, and I forgot that perhaps you were an innocent as well. Now I understand just how many such mistakes I made in my life- my _lives_. I should have helped you instead of- should have been healing you instead of _battling_ you.” He looked up slowly, his eyes shining cobalt with tears. “I am so sorry.”

Assured by Freya’s small nod, Arthur turned to take in the sight of his manservant, who had redirected his gaze downwards, all red eyes and twitching ears and scruffy black hair. Arthur took a step forward. Merlin shrunk even further into his chest as he waited for... for what, he didn’t even know. How would one be expected to react to fifteen hundred years of memories? Memories that reopened old wounds and brought reminders of what had been lost? Memories that, once carefully scrutinised, revealed so many things hidden in the darkest, most desperate corners of hearts?

He didn’t have time to answer these questions before he was hauled into a bone-crushing hug. Asthe scent of regal confidence and familiar reassurance pervaded his senses, Merlin pressed his face into Arthur’s shoulder.

“Let me in, Merlin,” Arthur whispered. “I swear I won’t hurt you. How could I, after everything you’ve done?”

“I’m sorry I pushed you away,” Merlin said hoarsely. “Oftentimes the one to whom you give the most is the one from whom you _expect_ the most. And I… couldn’t bear to raise my hopes, not after _so many years_ -”

“But why, Merlin?” Arthur pulled away and grasped Merlin’s shoulders, his eyes wide with avidity. “Of all the things you taught me, hope was, it would seem, the most important.”

They sustained a look of affection and devotion until the rumbling of the Lake became peals of thunder and Freya exclaimed in warning. Arthur raised an eyebrow at Merlin, as though to say, _so much more dramatic than mine, yeah?_ Merlin chuckled breathlessly, his heart pounding at the thought of seeing Gwen again. He had apologised so fervently for years afterwards, and she had insisted countless times that all was forgiven, yet a tiny, badgering part of him still wondered whether she blamed him for Camlann and for the decade of secrets and deceit that they’d spent together.

A flash of silver interrupted his pondering. Familiar with the sight, he immediately began searching for a silhouette approaching from within the white light.

But it flickered and dissolved, leaving only the murky green of the forest and the indigo of the Lake behind. Merlin groaned, befuddled, as he realised that Freya was gone as well. Then he turned to ask Arthur if he saw anyth-

“What is it?” Worry strangled his chest as he saw Arthur’s pale, sweaty face.

The King lifted a quivering finger in the direction of the shore. Merlin spun around.

Guinevere was lying on the grass, the water lapping at her feet. Beautiful.

Unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea... nothing much happened this chapter. I think I've lost the measly streak of originality that helped me write the first two chapters D:
> 
> hope everyone's doing well!


	5. Nightflower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His breath hitched as he absorbed the image of the two purest souls he’d ever know, miraculously deeming him worthy of their care and love.

“Guinevere,” Arthur breathed. He scampered over to his Queen’s side, falling to his knees on the rocks. Merlin was close behind but remained a few paces away — Arthur could not for the life of him fathom the reason why — his eyes darting back and forth between Gwen and Arthur.

A muffled whimper resonated from the pile of brown hair and lilac fabric. Gwen stirred, blinking slowly.

“Arth-?” She had hardly finished the first word before a sob overwhelmed her and she collapsed in Arthur’s arms. The Once and Future King and his Queen were reunited at last.

As they wept and laughed and embraced, Arthur couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that this wasn’t right — not the joy of having Gwen back, but the stark contrast between their warm reunion and his and Merlin’s. Speaking of, the idiot was _still_ shuffling his feet at a distance, looking for all the world as though he didn’t belong there. _He doubts it_ , Arthur realised suddenly. _He doubts his role in our eyes_.

A surge of guilt and desperation forced him to release Gwen from his arms and motion Merlin forward. The Queen gasped as her eyes rested upon the warlock’s sapphire-eyed, raven-crowned face.

“ _Merlin_ ,” she whispered, and threw herself upon him without another word.

“Gwen...” The name stumbled out, unsure of its legitimacy as it fell off those lips. Arthur noticed that the way Merlin said it — the lost, hesitant, broken voice — was the same way he’d said Arthur’s name on his first night back.

“Gwen, I’m-"

“Merlin, if you dare apologise one more time, I shall strangle you with that ridiculous neckerchief this minute.”

“But I... I left you-"

His voice faltered at Gwen’s half-smiling glare. With a relieved shake of his head, he wrapped his arms around her and whispered, “I’ve missed you, Gwen.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Merlin,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m so sorry-"

“If I can’t apologise, you can’t either-"

“I saw everything — all those years you waited, always alone. I can’t imagine the strength it must have taken — yes, strength, Merlin, _stop that blushing this minute_ — the strength to endure centuries of watching new friends become old and- and...”

Gleaning from her knitted brows that she was not going to finish, Merlin glanced at Arthur, who shook his head. “I suppose I gave up on friendship towards the end,” Merlin began, a counterfeit twinkle in his eye that was painfully familiar to Arthur, “after all, being the idiot that I am...”

He shrugged, prompting a tearful giggle from Gwen. “That’s just because you’re in disguise,” she mumbled.

Merlin blinked and beamed at her. Arthur clenched his teeth; he may not have understood their joke, but he’d noted the hint of sorrow in Merlin’s eyes that no one else would have. The same sorrow that the warlock’s signature twinkle would outshine far too frequently, baring to the world only the side of him that shone like the sun and covering the side that wept like the moon. Arthur recounted his first week back and discerned, with a force that weakened his knees and made him stagger, that he hadn’t even thought about how Merlin had suffered. They’d spent the week showing Arthur the modern Albion, explaining to him their shared destiny, and discussing his devastating trials from his time in the Lake. They’d filled the days with tales of grief below the Lake’s surface and never touched the ones above.

No wonder Gwen had been the one to lead Albion to her Golden Age. Her kindness surpassed even Arthur’s idiocy.

“Arthur?”

They were staring at him, confusion and concern etched in their beautiful faces. His breath hitched as he absorbed the image of the two purest souls he’d ever know, miraculously deeming him worthy of their care and love.

Gwen stepped over to him — it seemed to him as though she glided, like Freya over the water — and grasped his hands. The sincerity in her eyes must have unlatched something in his mind, for he suddenly knew what was strangling his heart and that nothing was more important than releasing it and that the only way to do so was to tell her.

“I love you, Guinevere.” He closed his eyes. “But not as my Queen.”

He drew the necessary courage to look into Gwen’s eyes and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw in their brown depths the same uncomfortable yet firm feeling that had squeezed his chest. There was surprise there, a hint of crestfallen resignation, and no small amount of relief. But he found no hurt, no anger, and for that he was eternally grateful. Almost as grateful as he was for her next words.

“I feel the same.” Her eyes sparkled. “I do. Maybe we loved each other once,” her lips quirked in a brief grin, “but I have a feeling it was never the kind of love that people bind in a hand-fasting.”

“It was not,” Arthur agreed, unable to breathe for the pouring love and respect that he felt for this woman. “But I have never admired anyone quite the way I have you.”

She flushed, ducking her head shyly. “While I was... in the Lake,” she murmured, “I had ample time to reflect on our lives together. I had this unshakeable… _sceptical_ feeling about our marriage. Every time we quarrelled, it was rather restrained, as though neither one of us could fully express ourselves with the liberty that our supposed relationship should have demanded. Neither one of us is to blame, Arthur, for it was no more than a foolish longing for an alignment of love and duty that drove us to see what was not there.”

“I always did say you were wise, Guinevere,” Arthur replied, lifting his head to grin down at her. “Even before we married. The way you stood up to me — you were a Queen in a servant’s clothes. A blind man could have seen it.”

Gwen blushed again. “Perhaps on some subjects, but when it comes to my own feelings, I’m afraid I don’t have altogether too strong a grasp… I did have my eyes on quite a few people back in Camelot before we married.”

Arthur frowned. “’ _Quite a few_ ’? What do you-"

“Well there was Lancelot, which you did _not_ react well to-"

“Of course, although bringing that particular incident up is _quite_ unnecessary-"

“I did fancy Leon when I first met him, and Gwaine was rather charming-"

“I suppose Leon has his virtues, but _Gwaine_ -"

“Oh,” she said, smiling brightly with a devilish sparkle in her eyes. “And then there’s Merlin.”

Arthur permitted himself a minute to scoop up his jaw from the ground. “ _Mer_ \- That one? That one over there?”

Merlin’s eyes were equally wide, his lips downturned in a scowl that read _I’m sorry I must have misheard, although that is usually never a problem with these ears_. “What? Gwen, mess with Arthur all you like, but please don’t drag me into this-”

Both men stumbled as Gwen suddenly cackled in delight. “It’s not a joke! You were so kind, and funny, and brave. All the servants were half in love with you, even all the knights at some point or another” — Arthur certainly did _not_ squeak — “Merlin, were you truly oblivious to my feelings the entire time? I said I’d grant you anything, I laughed at everything you said, I gave you _flowers_ -”

“You gave _Morgana_ flowers,” Merlin pointed out.

“-I _kissed_ you!”

“You,” Arthur interrupted, “you _what_.”

Merlin and Gwen glanced at each other. “It was after I was poisoned,” the former began hurriedly, “that first week, remember?” Arthur did, in fact, remember, as he had quite recently had fifteen hundred years stuffed into his brain as though it were a ham, but he was kind enough not to say so. Still, that particular memory left an unpleasant taste on his tongue. “Well, I stopped breathing before I woke up, so Gaius and Gwen were quite relieved. As _friends_ ,” he added, glowering at a chortling Gwen. “And she kissed me, what with the emotional toil and all.”

“You did not kiss me back,” Gwen said, pouting. Her voice still shook with laughter, and Merlin elbowed her.

Bringing his hands up in an _I surrender_ gesture, Arthur sighed and said, “Alright, let’s not speak of this any further. Gwen, you must be exhausted — why don’t we head back to Merlin’s fl-" He paused to inspect Gwen’s face, unsure of how much she knew.

“Merlin’s flat?” She shrugged. “As I said, I’ve been watching and counting the years. I’ll know my way around our new Albion. And I know all about your destinies, too. It seems the Goddess found it unnecessary to wait until my return to the mortal realm before advising me about our places in the future of the world.”

“So you saw everything?” Merlin enquired. “And you harbour what you learned, even now? You… you spoke with the Goddess?”

Gwen pursed her lips. “It was a strange state of half-consciousness, as though I were in that impenetrable haze between dreams. The Goddess spoke to me, but I didn’t _hear_ her voice — rather, I _felt_ it, and I gradually understood all that had passed. My eyes remained on you, Merlin, and the rest of me — how do I put this? — the rest of me soaked up the information.”

“You don’t need any guidance to fit in with… with London?” Arthur asked, slightly indignant on behalf of his pride and intelligence that the weeks of tutoring he’d received from Merlin were not to be delegated to anyone else.

“Yes, I am fully accustomed to the modern ways of the world.” She paused, smiling sheepishly and rubbing her palms against the pleats of her purple gown. “And, erm, I’d really love to try some coffee ice cream.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I guess sporadic week-long updates have become the norm :)
> 
> Some sidenotes on this chapter: first off, I felt Merlin should be a witness to Arthur and Gwen's reunion and confessions because he’s such an integral part of their relationship - you can see it in the show, how he catalyses their closeness and mutual trust. He helped them begin; it's only fitting that he sees them end.
> 
> Also, Arwen. It's hard - I don't ship Arthur and Gwen, but it's become pretty difficult to pry them apart without some negative character development on both parts. Hopefully this didn't shine an unpleasant light on Arthur or diminish Gwen's value in any way!
> 
> Finally... Yes, I did include an "everyone loves Merlin" trope. Do I regret it? Mayb- No.
> 
> (Again, sorry for the lack of bountiful plot; I wanted to explore some characterisation before going further with the story, but... oops. I guess the 3-chapter-fic plan is slowly unravelling...)


	6. Rainshade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I feel as though I have lived a hundred lifetimes,” he whispered, “yet have only the wisdom of an hour to guide me.”

After several rounds of _are you absolutely sure you need no help Gwen?_ and _I can’t believe you won’t have to suffer Merlin’s prattling, how is this fair?_ and _I suppose we women are simply faster, Arthur, get used to it, we’re in the twenty-first century_ , they turned from the Lake and began climbing up the dewy slopes in the direction where the car was parked.

“Merlin.”

He turned around, an abrupt bout of guilt overtaking him as he realised he’d forgotten to say goodbye. Arthur and Gwen, still arguing fervently, continued trudging forward.

Freya was watching him studiously, an unfeeling stoicism in her brown eyes that hadn’t been there when Merlin first met her. He was of course in awe of her radiating divinity and near-regal dignity, but a part of him longed for the innocent Druid girl whom he’d rescued from Halig that stormy night in the Lower Town. It wasn’t so much a nostalgic yearning for young romance as an acquiescent melancholy; he felt as though he’d lost another friend to the Old Religion, to his destiny.

“I’ve missed you,” she said, but for all the emotion that flowed into the words, she might as well have said, _You have tomato sauce in your hair._

“As have I,” he replied, blinking quickly and ignoring the sting in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Freya.”

“What for?”

He sighed, wondering how to articulate the torrent of guilt and longing in his chest. “I feel as though I have lived a hundred lifetimes,” he whispered, “yet have only the wisdom of an hour to guide me.”

She cocked her head slightly — a new habit of hers, it seemed. It reminded him of a sleek, black, feline face with golden eyes, purring as he scratched its ears, then turning away as it noticed the fear he couldn’t fully bar from his face. And the way she narrowed her eyes and examined him was so reminiscent of Kilgharrah, he almost wondered for a second if she had any relation to the cunning old dragon. Again, a stab of guilt nearly eviscerated him as his mind scrolled through an immeasurable list of all the magical beings whom he’d failed.

“I don’t blame you, Merlin.” He startled before realising that Freya had been squinting closely at him and must have seen the shame etched in his frown. “How could I, after the kindness you showed me? I don’t blame Arthur entirely, either. It was Uther who had instilled the idea in him that war is the only means to peace, that any magical creature is to be treated as a monster. Arthur saw a threat to his people and attacked — I understand. Not at first,” she added, and her voice trembled for a moment.

He glanced up and found that her eyes glistened. Perhaps it was foolish or even selfish of him, but something close to joy and relief blossomed in his heart as he discovered that Freya could still feel, that she was still at least partly human.

“Not at first,” she continued. “When I first found myself in the ethereal realm of the Lake, I was angry... _furious_. The spirits tried to calm me, even punished me with isolation and darkness when I did not cooperate with the tasks they wanted to lay upon me.” Seeing the horror in Merlin’s eyes, she quickly added, “I died a peaceful death, Merlin. You ensured that, by restoring my faith in love. But as a human, a mortal girl, I still held that inevitable notion of... of fearing death, of the unfairness of my curse and of life.”

“You were so calm, so strong in your last words,” Merlin said miserably. “I was naive, I thought — I _hoped_ — that what I’d done was enough, that you could rest entirely at peace.”

As he hung his head, Freya glided closer and swept her palm across his cheek. “But you mustn’t worry, Merlin. My soul fares better now than it did in my mortal life — I have a _purpose_ now. I became part of the Lake after swearing to repay you, but it wasn’t until I swore to serve the Old Religion that I became the true Lady of the Lake. You don’t know how proud I am to have a role to play in the future of Albion.”

Merlin chuckled. “I wish I could think like that,” he mumbled, unable to keep the despondence from his voice. “All I see, oftentimes, is a future filled with further pain and suffering, not just for me but for my friends as well. It drives me m... Sometimes it’s hard to notice the good in the world when you’re the one whose duty it is to keep it there.” He smiled ruefully. “After all, those who guard the gold for too long often forget its value.”

The Lake burbled as Freya giggled. “Quite profound, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “Age makes one profound. All my wit has turned to... well, wisdom, I hope.”

“You really have changed.” She studied him and gave a small shake of her head. “I suppose we all have, thanks to the burdens upon our shoulders, but yours was the greatest. The first time we met... I could see the bright, young hope in your eyes. But-“ She paused, dropping her gaze pensively. “Searching for it now, I find that it has indeed turned into tortured wisdom.”

Struck by a sudden urgency, Merlin blurted out: “Did you love me?” Horrified, he clapped a hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry... I just needed to know- when you died, did you feel the same way?”

“Yes.” The answer came without hesitation, and Merlin’s heart leapt. “But Merlin,” she continued, “I don’t think you understand exactly how you- how we felt. I don’t think it was the love you’re thinking of.”

It was his turn to cock his head. “And what kind of love _was_ it?”

“I think... we were both young, both filled with magic that drowned our lungs and beat against our chests and screamed to be let out. I think we were both smart enough to suppress the magic while in Camelot, but perhaps not wise enough to realise the toll it had taken upon our hearts. We were...”

“Lonely,” he finished. He nodded, feeling as though the silver moon overhead had just then begun to shine, pulsing along with Freya’s words, and had illuminated something hidden in the recesses of his heart.

“Yes, lonely,” she said, taking his hand into hers. “We were eager to find companionship, to find someone who _understood_. And... we both became blind to the possibility — or rather, the reality — that we did not in fact love each other, that we did not even truly understand each other. What we shared was perhaps born out of the excitement of it all. We were both frightened and hopeful and above all _young_. Think about it, Merlin — our first kiss was after Halig almost found us. Our last kiss was on the road to Avalon, while I was dying. They were not kisses of love but of mutual comfort and hope. Not that they weren’t incredible kisses,” she added hurriedly, flushing a pale pink.

Despite himself, Merlin smirked. “All this to tell me you liked kissing me?”

She rapped his arm. “The _point_ , my shameless friend, is that fifteen centuries of reflection have shown me that a shared fate, especially a _fear_ of that fate, can bring two hearts together in a way that transcends love.”

“Like ours,” he agreed. “That explains my inexcusable behaviour after your death.” She shot him a quizzical look, and he explained, “I did not grieve appropriately. I am... _so_ sorry, and you deserved much more than a simple burial. I should have organised the mourning period after, and...” He trailed off, wondering how ridiculous and heartless he sounded. “I’m an idiot when it comes to apologising, too, then,” he concluded abashedly.

“You had other matters to tend to,” she said. He winced at the hint of Nonchalant Goddess that had returned to her voice.

They were interrupted by a flurry of squawks from the doves overhead, who had begun clambering among the treetops and rattling the branches. There was an impatient note in their crowing, the same note that Merlin had snapped at earlier. Rays of mesmerising moonshine peered between the olive leaves, sprinkling the Lake with an emerald glow of exigent farewell.

“It is a sign,” Freya mused, and Merlin was relieved to hear some warmth still lingering in her voice. “We have but a moment to speak before I must return to the Lake. There is still one matter at hand: _your_ lesson. What you learned in your time alone.”

“Let me guess — to wait?” Merlin had tried his best to keep the bitterness from his words, but the grimace of pity on Freya’s face told him he had failed. As he had at so many things.

“Essentially,” she said apologetically. “You have a vast array of virtues, Merlin; your strength, your courage, your selflessness, your compassion. But the Goddess felt that you showed signs of recklessness and acted thoughtlessly on far too many occasions. You must learn- you _have_ learned to make judgments not just with heart and kindness but also with fairness and foresight. Yes, you were exceedingly patient in confessing your magic, but there were several moments where you did not think past rescuing your loved ones... or Arthur, in particular.”

Merlin ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose I did get a bit, erm, exclusive.”

“I suppose you did,” Freya agreed. “An ocean wouldn’t be enough to contain the sacrifices you would make- you _have_ made, for those you love. But you became a bit blind to anything other than Arthur, in the end.”

“I just-“ He sighed, gazing at the stars that cycled, unfazed, across the purple skies above. “I’ve never loved another as I’ve loved him.”

A gust of wind sang as it danced through the rustling leaves, leaving the doves even more unsettled. The milky glow of the crescent moon and the silver throng of stars both rejoiced at Merlin’s words. Crickets and toads crescendoed in their invisible chorus, a grand _hallelujah_ as they celebrated the warlock’s long-awaited epiphany. Merlin bit his lip; this revelation had nestled in his chest for centuries, and speaking the words aloud to Freya and the forest felt no different from whispering them in his mind before drifting off to dreams every night.

When his confession was greeted with only silence, his eyes flitted across Freya’s face, finding an unmistakable smile upon her face — _took you long enough_. She narrowed her eyes and raised a brow.

“Why did you never tell him?” _Why did you lie to your heart?_

“I had a slightly more important job to do — you know, keeping the idiot alive.” _Isn’t it obvious? I was afraid._

“And will you tell him now?” _All these years? Your feelings haven’t changed?_

Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but something echoed in the back of his throat, something that drew his lips into a frown and his eyes into hard glares every time he saw himself in a mirror. He decided that the time for humour was over.

“I believe so,” he said. The words spilled out thick and hoarse. “It’s still true, despite…” The time for the truth was now. “Despite my resolve wavering, my loyalty to my king is still as strong as it ever was.”

Freya blinked as understanding softened her gaze. “Your- what did you call them? Your Dark Years?”

Merlin nodded. “There were… too many of them for me not to be ashamed. The fourteenth century was perhaps the worst, but the twentieth was nearly as terrible. I’ve always failed to understand the glory that warriors feel as they battle, but I’ve understood death. Gods, I’ve seen so much death, it would be ridiculous if I didn’t know the laws of life by now, wouldn’t it?”

“Merlin…” A tear crawled down her cheek, but this time, it brought no comfort to his heart.

“But the death I witnessed in those centuries,” he continued, struggling to choke the words out even as his voice broke. “It was horrible, Freya. I’ll never understand how I managed to hold onto my sanity. Perhaps I have a great destiny, but,” his voice rose and shook, “but I’m _still human!_ ”

That last word ricocheted off the silhouettes of trees and the lakeside boulders before returning to the lips that had spoken it, haunting and taunting him as it had for fifteen centuries.

“I wavered, Freya.” She flinched when he spoke her name. “I saw all of this- war, sickness, beastly acts upon humans at the hands of their own brothers, and I saw _his_ absence. I saw that I was alone, with only my magic. Damn it, it was supposed to be _his_ magic! _Only for you, Arthur_...”

A streak of cerulean landed upon Merlin’s palm, which he’d been holding out like a drowning man desperate to grab onto anything above the surface. The delicate wings gradually stopped flapping, and Merlin studied the intricate designs on the butterfly.

“That’s all I heard. It opened the gate, and then everything else rushed into my mind — _it is pure evil, Merlin_ … _those who practice magic are evil and dangerous_ … I got angry. I _hated_ him then, for never showing me anything but irritation, even if it was friendly at times. For wearing the mantle of a man who persecuted my people. For confusing me until I apologised to _him_ for having to keep my soul a secret, and then for leaving me with only a ‘thank you’ to live on. So I left Avalon.”

“Every time?” Freya asked, brushing the butterfly with her finger.

“Every time,” he admitted. “Every time I felt so alone and _furious_ , every time my loyalty to him disappeared for too long. My greatest fear has always been to be driven, like Morgana, to evil by the repudiation of those I love. In the end, I suppose I did that to myself.”

The butterfly’s wings drooped until the creature became a perfect blue triangle in his palm, silent and sleeping, perhaps dreaming of sweeter things than lost kingdoms and lonely men.

With a gentle final stroke of the butterfly, Freya broke the heavy quiet. “But you are once more the man you were in Camelot, Merlin. I can see it — and it seems Arthur and Guinevere do as well.”

Clouds collected beneath the moon, and for a moment the stars were alone in illuminating the night. Deep below their feet, the earth rumbled and groaned, wrinkling the surface of the Lake. The butterfly flitted off into the shadows.

“You must go,” Merlin guessed, gesturing at the black ripples.

Freya smiled sadly as she floated back to the water. “Take heart,” she said, and Merlin felt something grasp his heart at hearing those words again, the words with which Kilgharrah had placed enough hope in him to sustain fifteen centuries, “for the Goddess would not begin the sacred mission if she did not believe you ready for it.”

“I hope so.” The taste of those three innocent words lingered on his tongue. He licked his lips, pushing memories of punching walls and tearing hair out of his mind.

“I really hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freya did not have enough time. Freya did not have enough time. Freya did not ha- I just felt that turning into this benevolent, inhuman Lady of the Lake needed a longer process than a quick death. Did I go off too long, making a whole chapter about her and Merlin? Probably.
> 
> But I did not mean for the angst to take over.
> 
> Oops.


	7. Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur woke with a snort. “Wh- Merlin, what took you so long?”
> 
> “Funny,” Merlin said, turning the engine on, “I’ve asked you that very question millions of times before.”

The trek back to the car was a lonely whirlwind of self-composure and roughly wiped away tears. By the time he came across the tree root upon which he’d stumbled earlier and prompted a braying laugh from Arthur, the black of night was giving way to the rosy embrace of dawn. Merlin cursed the day for arriving so early and shining a spotlight on his unwanted tears.

Arthur and Gwen were already in the car, the latter biting her nails and darting her eyes around as the other snored, his cheek pressed against the window. When Merlin emerged from the wooded shadows, Gwen’s eyes lit up, and a sigh of relief fogged over the car window.

“How gracious of you to join us,” she hissed when he pulled open the driver’s door.

“I can see neither of you were worried much,” he replied, waving his hand over Arthur’s drooling face and pummelling the King’s cheek — entirely accidentally, of course.

Arthur woke with a snort. “Wh- _Mer_ lin, what took you so long?”

The lightning speed with which even a drowsy Arthur could don an air of disdainful righteousness often astonished Merlin, even after years of putting up with it. “Funny,” he said, turning the engine on, “I’ve asked you that very question millions of times before.”

***

After Arthur had explained to the pouting idiot that they had in fact noticed his absence (as the walk had become rather peaceful — no aimless chatter), that they had run back to find Merlin in deep conversation with the Lady of the Lake, and that Arthur had had the sense — without _any_ nudging from Gwen — to leave the two alone, Merlin finally quieted and left the conversation to Gwen, who was far more talkative than she had been in Camelot. She found a particular delight in naming every item that she could remember from her observations in the Lake. And it only got worse when they started driving and left the woods behind for the city.

“ _Road signs_!” she exclaimed, pointing wildly in multiple directions at once in an impossible way that only Gwen could manage. “Why didn’t we have those?”

“Perhaps because we didn’t have _cars_ , Gwen,” Merlin drawled. Arthur could hear his smirk. That infuriating- Arthur was definitely _not_ smiling as well. No one had a right to be that contagious in their happiness.

“We had horses, though.” A honking lorry seized her attention for a moment, pulling her jaw open in awe even as Arthur’s heart nearly leapt out of his throat in fear. “We had horses,” she continued, “and against knights who drank like Gwaine, road signs would have been _quite_ useful.”

Arthur sighed dramatically. “I always did tell him not to drink and ride.”

***

“So what is our first step?”

Arthur barely had time to break his fall with one hand before his knee crashed painfully on the floor. When his head shot upwards, incredulity sprawled across his wrinkled brows, Gwen was grimacing in her endearing way, and all indignation evaporated from him in a single stroke. The spilt tea on the carpet induced only a quiet, tired sigh from his sleep-cracked lips.

“Sorry,” Gwen mumbled softly, “didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“You didn’t _frighten_ me,” he retorted, suddenly much more awake. “I don’t _get_ frightened. I was simply a bit startled-"

“Like a startled stoat, would you say?” Merlin, the cheeky monster, was leaning on his elbows on the side of the counter opposite Gwen. His blinding smile, complete with tiny wrinkles next to his breathtaking, jewel-blue eyes, filled Arthur with both staggering affection and exasperation that someone could have such energy before sunrise.

Arthur sniffed and sipped some of the tepid tea remaining in his cup. “It’s still dark outside. What the hell are you two doing?”

“Waiting for you to clean up my carpet-"

“We were discussing,” Gwen interrupted, the same urgency returning to her voice as had filled the earlier question that had nearly cost Arthur his dignity, “what exactly we’re all doing here.”

Arthur frowned. “What, here? Merlin’s hovel?”

“Oi, my flat is perfectly fine,” Merlin protested, snatching the cup out of Arthur’s hands and helping himself to a gulp. “What Gwen _means_ is what you two are doing... back.”

Gwen shook her head. “You too, Merlin. Why have you been forced to stay here so long, so alone? Why haven’t you been allowed to rest?”

“Perhaps he got plenty of rest back in Camelot,” Arthur suggested, “when he was supposed to be working as my manservant.”

“Freya told me the Goddess wants Arthur and me for some ‘sacred’ mission,” Merlin said, emptying the dregs of the cup into Arthur’s lap. “You and the rest are returning to help us. She believes we did not fulfill our destiny the first time, which makes sense.”

His voice trembled slightly, and Arthur thought worriedly of what Merlin had said about failing. About never being free.

“And what _is_ your destiny?” Gwen asked. She glanced at Arthur, who blinked and shrugged.

Merlin exhaled. “I’m no longer sure. For ten years, I was so certain that it was simply to keep Arthur safe so that he might unite Albion. But an old friend… he knew a lot, much more than I did, and while he often used it against me, he did teach me much of what I know today. I talked to him once more after Arthur- after Camlann, and he spoke of two parts to the destiny. ‘Just as there are two sides to this coin, there are two sides to your destiny.’” He snorted. “The old dragon never did learn to speak normally.”

“I still cannot _believe_ you let the lizard go and told me I killed him-"

“He spoke of uniting Albion,” Merlin continued, determinedly keeping his eyes on Gwen, “but also of returning magic to its rightful place in the world.”

Gwen wrung her hands. “I didn’t do that, with the repeal?”

“Freya said that wasn’t en-"

“The _what_?” For the second time that night, Arthur felt as though the pair standing in front of him were strangers, not his queen and his best friend. He supposed that centuries of separation and hallucinations could do that to a person.

“The repeal of the ban on magic.” Merlin’s voice broke slightly on the last word; there were tears in his bright eyes as he studied Arthur’s dumbstruck stare.

A month. They’d spent a month together, and while Merlin could be excused for allowing Arthur the first week to incorporate himself into modern Albion — that still left _three weeks_ , he realised, where they hadn’t even touched the subject of Camelot after Camlann. How he had missed this, only the Goddess knew. But he could see from the painful compunction in Merlin’s furrowed brows and pressed lips that the topic had been intentionally avoided.

“Why did you not tell me?” he whispered, an echo of a broken question asked upon the branches of a broken tree.

Merlin sucked in a breath. “I didn’t think you needed any more-"

“Did you think I would be angry? Did you not trust me to be happy for you?” The thought was too hurtful to bear, but it was somehow better than the alternative: Merlin being _Mer_ lin again, protecting him from the shame and throbbing remorse that would undoubtedly have seized Arthur once he learned how Gwen had done the very thing he’d been destined to do.

He didn’t answer. Damn the man, he _knew_ what Arthur was really asking. He’d always known what Arthur was thinking even when Arthur didn’t.

Gwen’s brown eyes fluttered from one to the other fearfully. “Arthur...”

He held up a hand. He was a _king_ , for gods’ sake, or at least he had been — what was he now, without a true kingdom to rule? — and oh, there were so many questions circling in his head, but none so prominent as the mystery of the dizzying agony gripping his chest, the overwhelming urge to scream at the heavens for allowing him to _feel_ so deeply for the first time in centuries, after what was, in hindsight, life after life of shallow happiness and shallow grief. Who had given Merlin the right to burrow himself into Arthur’s skin and leave behind empty, weeping shadows whenever he liked? Who had filled Gwen with the stoic strength and clear-mindedness that Arthur was supposed to have?

The dignified facade that he’d been taught to don had prevailed for a month, but no more. He was ready to face the possibility that he was simply no longer a king. Whether he was more or less, better or worse, remained to be seen.

He stalked off towards his room. The worried murmurs of those two pure souls trailed behind him, both kissing and piercing his every step.

***

The morning was kinder. Everything was kinder when surrounded by the golden glow permeating the world in those few hours after dawn. That’s why he’d always loved the sun — it could bring scorching heat or perfect cosiness or useless shreds of warmth, as fickle as the shades of the moon, but you could always count on it to bring light, however dim.

“Wallowing again, sire?”

He blinked groggily and lifted his head from the pillow. Merlin was leaning against the doorframe, his hair tousled and his cerulean eyes sparkling, wearing the same _up-and-at-’em_ smile that had woken him up every morning in Camelot.

“I do not,” Arthur mumbled, weighing the warmth of the pillow with the satisfaction of having it pelted in Merlin’s face, “ _wallow_.”

“Of course, sire.” (Since when had they returned to formalities?) “And are you planning to join us for breakfast, or have you finally accepted that you need a diet?”

“Shut up, Merlin.” The words rolled off his tongue, a shock of bittersweet affection, more jarring than the gilded sunshine peering in through the drapes. His back turned to Merlin, it was safe to tell himself that the smile spreading across his face was entirely warranted and under his control.

Merlin snorted and closed the door behind him. The gust of wind wafted in the scent of breakfast: sausages, bacon, eggs, toast… oh gods, _beans and tomatoes_. Arthur tripped more than once in his haste to dress and join the others at breakfast.

He didn’t notice the shadows that had fallen across the floor.

***

“So,” he said, a mouthful of beans and toast earning him a grimace from Merlin and a withering stare from Gwen, “did you two discuss what Gwen was asking last night? After I…” He gestured with his fork.

Gwen nodded. “Yes, after you stormed off like a petulant child” — Merlin winced — “Merlin explained to me what Killmonger-"

“ _Kilgharrah_ -"

“-had told him about ’Albion’s greatest need.’ From what we deduced, it seems that Frida-"

“ _Freya_ \- seriously, Gwen, you’re doing this on purpose-"

“-did not know everything. We are not only to restore magic to the realm, but also to defeat a great evil in the process.”

Merlin nodded. “Kilgharrah spoke of darkness blanketing the kingdom, but I thought it was Morgana. It seems he was speaking of what is to come now, of an evil greater than we’ve ever seen.“ His lips were pressed in a thin line. “And after the terrible things I’ve seen all these years, it hardly bears to think what great evil could surpass all of them.”

***

It didn’t take long to find out.

All of the windows in Merlin’s flat faced one direction, and all except one gazed directly into spindly tree branches. The one in Arthur’s room was the only one with a view free of foliage, so he was the first to realise, upon waking up a few days later, that something was wrong.

His room was entirely grey. The flaxen gleam that had pervaded the walls had not only vanished, but had been replaced by a sombre darkness that nothing but dusk could have brought. It may as well have been nighttime. From the kitchen, he could already hear cheery chatter and clinking silverware; he was loath to dampen their mood, but-

One glance out the window told him all he needed to know: _get Merlin_.

***

As they gawked at the mutilated sky, he reminded himself of something Merlin had told him in their second week together. It had been the first time Merlin used magic in front of him since his return, despite his insistence that he was no longer afraid. Merlin, however, had refused, point-blank, to practise any sorcery before he was absolutely certain that Arthur was comfortable. That night, lounging upon the sofa with two pints of ice cream, Merlin must have seen something in Arthur’s eyes, for he had stood up abruptly, turned off the lights and whispered something indiscernible into his folded palms.

_When he unclasped his hands, Arthur had gasped. He had never seen anything more beautiful than the laces of stars and navy mist pouring out of Merlin’s fingers, illuminating those milky cheeks and lush lips. Arthur traced the ethereal face with his eyes before catching his breath when he found those cerulean jewels gazing fondly in his direction. Merlin was holding a galaxy in his hands, yet he looked at Arthur like he was the sun._

_“How could magic be so beautiful,” Arthur had murmured, “if I was taught to hate it?”_

_Merlin had smiled softly at him, his black lashes fluttering gently and drawing even more attention to those cornflower irises, and half-whispered:_

_“Magic is beautiful when wielded for beautiful hearts.”_

_Arthur had spoken then, without thinking- “By, Merlin._ By _beautiful hearts.”_

He heard a whimper of concern from Gwen to his left; when he glanced over at Merlin, the man was deathly pale, shivering even as Gwen stroked his arm soothingly. His eyes were wide, fixed on the clouds above, clouds that had taken the shape of-

“It’s Morgana.”

As Arthur and Gwen stared at him in horror, Merlin swallowed thickly and nodded, as if to affirm that they had not misheard. He closed his eyes and muttered something shakily under his breath. The clouds dissipated, leaving as quickly and silently as they had come, and the world below was none the wiser.

Only three pairs of fear-stricken eyes remained upon the sky, watching the last traces of the emblem disappear: a grinning skull, with a serpent winding in and out of its mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of the first part! (Although not sure who's still reading - how many of you did I lose with my plotless ramblings??)
> 
> It took a while, being a ~dramatic ending~ and all, but hope it's not too rushed; I wanted to wrap this up so I can take some time to think of what's going to happen in the next part :)
> 
> Edit: I’ve gotten a few comments about the skull mark being the Dark Mark from HP? I’m not 100% sure what that is, but this is what the symbol for hemlock was, so no it’s not an HP crossover


End file.
